


On Wings of Destiny We Ride

by ambitiousbutrubbish



Series: Sing While We Go Up in Flames [4]
Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Asexual Character, Asexual Enjolras, Asexual Relationship, Depression, F/M, M/M, Multi, Ugly!Grantaire
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-28
Updated: 2015-05-28
Packaged: 2018-04-01 15:01:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4024276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ambitiousbutrubbish/pseuds/ambitiousbutrubbish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire vows to protect them all from themselves. He vows that they will all live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On Wings of Destiny We Ride

**Author's Note:**

> Come with me, and we’ll be, in a world of depression and discussions about asexuality. I’m like a Willy Wonka who is upfront about her desire to murder the naughty children, except instead of turning kids into blueberries or shrinking them to squishable size I’m just here to write about mental illness and marginalised sexualities. As always, please do not hesitate to contact me if you have any questions about my portrayal of these issues.

Grantaire’s father left when he was seventeen. He’d had a relatively uneventful life up until that point; good grades at a good school, a stable home life in a nice house that his parents owned, a small group of friends that would hang around the fringes of protests, nodding along and hoping that the world would change, although not getting involved themselves. Sure, he had days when he didn’t want to get out of bed: where he would stare at the walls in his room for hours and not notice time as it went by, when his heart would seem to beat slower, his limbs feel heavier, and he wouldn’t be able to think above the white noise in his head. The feeling that his neurones just weren’t connecting, that he could just sleep and sleep and it wouldn’t make any difference. But it was rare, and he had written it off as just a part of growing up. Changing hormones and all that. Those hormones gave him terrible acne, so why not also that yawning ache in his chest and his stomach that felt like it was sucking in everything that was inside him - all his thoughts and emotions - into a place that he couldn’t reach. 

So Grantaire’s father left when Grantaire was seventeen, and everyone had expected him to be long passed the impressionable danger zone when it would effect him. But they had been wrong. 

Grantaire tries not to think of himself as broken because his therapist tells him that he’s not, that it’s all chemicals and genetics, that there’s nothing wrong with him. But some days he can’t believe it. And besides that, it’s the easiest way to describe what happens to him the day his dad walks out on him and his mum - something breaks in him, the gate that mostly kept his unbalanced chemicals at bay bends and snaps, the rusty hinges giving under the weight of them, and it all comes rushing through. The void inside him gnaws at his heart, eats away at his insides until there’s nothing left in him but the pain.

The alcohol helps, submerges the monster in his chest until he can’t feel it any more, it can’t get a grip and everything is hazy and slow and his emotions are dead under the weight, but as soon as it is dry it’s back, trying to claw its way free. And so he drinks more, drinks until he feels like he’s drowning, and he curls up into a ball under his covers and stares at the plain white wall.

Grantaire’s father leaves when he’s seventeen, and since then he has known not to believe in anything; that everything will end and fail before you are ready, so why even bother trying?

\--------------------

Despite his drinking and general disinterest in life, Grantaire’s university application ends up being accepted. Truthfully, he doesn’t remember applying, but there’s a lot of the last year and a half that he doesn’t remember. He doesn’t really want to go, but his mother is so proud of him, smiles more on the day he gets his acceptance letter than he’s seen her smile since his dad left, so he decides to try it at the very least. 

He meets Joly in his first week at university. He’s drunk, so drunk that he can’t see straight, has trouble keeping on his feet, and if Joly hadn’t walked passed him when he did, Grantaire’s pretty sure he would’ve tumbled down the small flight of stairs between the school and the dorm rooms and never gotten up again. Some days, when his head aches and his body’s insides are eating themselves, he’s not sure that he wouldn’t have preferred that. But Joly is there, and he takes one look at Grantaire’s red eyes and unwashed state and the way his whole body trembles and he leads him slowly back to his own dorm room.

Joly stays up all night watching him and most of the next day, skips all of his classes so he can watch Grantaire’s eyes track over his ceiling and when his hands start to shake with how much he needs alcohol, Joly gets a bottle of wine and stays up and matches Grantaire drink for drink. By the time they finish the bottle and Grantaire’s shaking has abated to a featureless buzz it’s late, and Joly has probably been awake for 24 hours by now. Grantaire thanks him for looking after him and makes to leave to let the near-perfect stranger have some rest from having to deal with him, but Joly scoffs and tells him that he isn’t letting Grantaire out of his sight until he can be sure that he’s not going to get hurt. Joly has a double bed so it’s a tight fit, but not as tight as it could’ve been and they’re both tipsy so it’s not as awkward as it could be, either.

Grantaire doesn’t think it would be awkward even if they weren’t.

It occurs to him just as he’s on the edge of sleep that Joly telling him to stay are the first words he’s ever heard him say (they’re not, but they’re the first ones he remembers, they’re what he associates with Joly from then on, and that’s what’s important). 

\--------------------

Joly is the one who convinces him to see a therapist. His mother had begged him tearfully to do so, but he had always refused, always told her he had it under control, that it wasn’t really that bad. And she believed him, because she wanted to so badly; she wanted to believe that he wasn’t lying when he said that he was okay, wanted to believe that he wasn’t hurting in his bones.

But Joly did not raise him. Joly does not have the same primal need for him to be alright that can so easily be manipulated. Joly is his friend, at this point his best and only friend, and he will not take no for an answer. Joly takes him by the arm and drags him to the therapist office, pays for three months worth of therapy. And Grantaire isn’t a complete arsehole, Joly’s cane isn’t for cosmetic purposes so he doesn’t struggle in his grip.

His therapist helps, she really does. She gets him medication, tells him that he’s not broken, and he doesn’t always believe her, but he tries. And most days he feels kind of flat and directionless, like all of his emotions are muted, far away, something he knows he should be having, but can’t quite access them. But it’s better than the way that he _hurt_ before. It’s better than the way that he thought he was dying. 

When Grantaire decides to leave university, it’s not because he doesn’t think he can finish and it’s not because it’s negatively affecting him in any real way. It’s just that he doesn’t want to be there any more, doesn’t think it’s helping him. And he is proud of how far he’s come.

\--------------------

The first time that Grantaire sees Enjolras his immediate thought is that the other man is impossibly, untouchably beautiful. Beautiful in the way that art is, like poetry. Like the human form emerging from marble; smooth and unblemished and pure and it’s true that Grantaire is not quite as good at handling his liquor now that he’s on medication (as true as it is that he shouldn’t be mixing alcohol with it, but some of his vices hold stronger than others), but he knows that he would think these things entirely sober.

He strains to listen to every word that Enjolras says, and he’s still telling his stories, but he doesn’t really know what he’s saying any more, and he can’t hear Enjolras over the noise of the café. He can see him, though, beautiful and blond and righteous and he tries not to think on his own broken nose and boxed ears and acne scars because they don’t bother him, truly, he’ll forget about them most of the time until someone sneers, but he thinks that Enjolras would bring anyone’s flaws to light.

He hardly even notices Enjolras’ companions until Bahorel calls out to him to invite him to speak to them. He knows Bahorel from one of the boxing venues he frequents, and they’re friends, - Grantaire goes out to bars with him when Joly has to study and they talk often - but as he strides over to where he sits with Enjolras, Combeferre and Courfeyrac, Grantaire thinks that Joly might be up for some competition as his best friend. Bahorel introduces him to the other three and tells him what they were talking about and Grantaire despairs, because it’s all so hopeless. They’re only walking down the path of futility. 

And Enjolras shoots right back, says that trying to do something is never pointless, that everything matters, and it’s obvious that he’s put thought and planning and research into everything he’s saying and that he means it with a conviction that just isn’t seen any more and that Grantaire lost long ago. And it simultaneously makes him want to hide in the dark corners and to leap at the chance to be a part of Enjolras’ world, and everything that he believes in, and if he’s kind of an arsehole it’s only because of the way that it makes Enjolras’ cheeks flush and his eyes burn fever bright and it’s a marvel and a wonder to behold.

When Grantaire gets back to his apartment, he spends nearly €150 on access to online journals.

\--------------------

That night Grantaire dreams of fire and blood and death. He dreams of violence and revolution. He dreams of people mobilising and fighting. And in the middle of it all he dreams of Enjolras, shouting at the world, with a gun in one hand pointed down at the ground, and a flag in the other raised into the sky. He dreams of Enjolras’ death, Enjolras dying over and over. And he dreams of his own death, never far behind when it isn’t first, and he wakes up with a gasp and a sob because he remembers everything.

He remembers every life he’s lived, and he remembers Enjolras in every one of them, despite the fact that this is the first one since 1832 that they’ve actually met in person. But Grantaire always sees him; whether he walks passed him on the street, hears him speaking and is drawn to what he’s saying but never introduces himself, sees him on the television or reads about him in the newspaper, Grantaire always finds Enjolras, and he watches. Because Enjolras is always impossible to ignore. He’s always trying to make a difference. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are always standing beside him, and sometimes other Amis are there too, but it’s always the three of them trying to change the world, and it’s never Grantaire. This is only the second time they’ve met, after all the lives they’ve both lived, and Grantaire isn’t going to let this one pass him by.

But Enjolras is so different this time around - young and a high school dropout and so much less controlled than he usually is, throwing his words around in the hope that they will stick somewhere - that Grantaire can’t be sure that he hasn’t missed his chance already. And so the second time they meet Grantaire listens and he waits and when Enjolras turns on him for a comment he makes offhandedly he looks up from the darkness where he hid his face against his arms and he sees an avenging angel glaring down at him, burning, and he whispers “Apollo” just to feel it on his lips again. And Enjolras is so furious at the implications behind the (private, so private) nickname that Grantaire realises that despite Enjolras being different from what he remembers, he is exactly the same. Grantaire doesn’t know how he could ever have doubted him. Enjolras is the one sure thing. The one constant. 

Enjolras shows no recognition at Grantaire’s whispered words and Grantaire knows immediately that Enjolras doesn’t remember anything. He’s glad for that, in a way, because he doesn’t want Enjolras to remember the way that he was about him. It was scary and obsessive and dangerous, and he’s worked so hard not to be like that anymore. He loves Enjolras, of course he does. Has loved him in every life he’s ever lived, even when he only saw him on the television. But his head is clearer now than it has ever been, his thoughts are easier to access and digest instead of just pushing them into the dark corners of his mind to gather dust. He can see Enjolras burning throughout the ages, fighting for change, for equality, for freedom. But his words, no matter how beautiful they may be, end in death and ruin more often than success. Because Enjolras is only human. The best of humanity. And Grantaire loves him for it. 

\--------------------

Grantaire wishes it was Courfeyrac here guiding him back to his apartment. That’s not entirely true, he wishes it were Joly or Bahorel seeing him at his lowest, when the darkness eats everything inside him. He has bad days still, despite the medication; days when he scares himself with what he feels, and he tries to drown every thought that he has. He must’ve sent a drunk text to everyone and they had sent someone to collect him, and Grantaire is grateful for it, but if it had to be one of Enjolras’ best friends, he wishes that it had been Courfeyrac. He gets along easily with Courfeyrac, they flirt with pretty people together and tell each other increasingly implausible stories late into the night. Courfeyrac is friendly in a way that makes it impossible not to be friendly back, and when he smiles the world seems effortlessly cheerier.

But it’s not Courfeyrac who practically has to carry him up the stairs. It’s Combeferre. And Grantaire likes Combeferre, of course he does, Combeferre is kind and fair and resolute, but things aren’t easy with him the way that they are with Courfeyrac. He’s more distant, more reserved, and they don’t spend time together, just the two of them. And he’s Enjolras’ best friend, knows everything about him in a way that even Courfeyrac doesn’t because he’’s known him longer, and that terrifies him, because he’s always afraid that he’s going to say something stupid around him; about the way he feels about Enjolras, about the way that looking at Enjolras sometimes feels like his heart is being ripped from his chest, about how he cries, sometimes, because Enjolras doesn’t even like him. 

And he thinks he must have said some of these things out loud, because Combeferre is looking thoughtfully down at him from where he’s deposited him in his bed and Grantaire really does start crying, a little bit, because he’s ruined everything and Combeferre will tell Enjolras and Enjolras will never want to see him again. But when Combeferre speaks it’s not to tell him to stay away from Enjolras. “Enjolras is remarkably perceptive about you, you know.”

Grantaire laughs, and he knows that it’s watery and he knows that it’s bitter, but how could it not be when Enjolras hasn’t noticed the way he feels about him when he doesn’t try to hide it, when Enjolras says things that cut him to the bone and moves on. Combeferre must get some of that from his laugh, and his smile in return is sad, but there’s fondness in there too. “Well he’s perceptive for Enjolras, anyway. He doesn’t always understand how people are feeling, he can’t read their faces and know how they’re going to react. But he was the one who sent me to get you even though your text gave every impression that you were enjoying yourself. He cares about you, Grantaire. Believe me.”

Combeferre leaves without another word, and Grantaire feels like he’s come up for air after so long drowning.

\--------------------

Grantaire attends every protest that Enjolras is present at too, even when he doesn’t give a speech. His favourites are the ones where Enjolras speaks, of course, where he takes to the stage in all his glory and Grantaire watches from below, stares up at him with his conviction and his hope as he brings the world to its knees before him. Or lifts them from their place of subjugation. Grantaire isn’t sure which metaphor is more appropriate, though he knows which Enjolras would prefer. 

What he also knows is that after he walks away from that podium and leaves a fire burning in his wake, the crowd parts from Enjolras like the sea, and everyone looks away from him, or at their feet, as if looking at his face would be too terrifying. They had watched him onstage avidly enough, faces glowing with the fervour that only Enjolras can inspire, but when he’s not shouting slogans, looking at Enjolras is like staring at the sun, or at an angel, light bursting with righteousness. Grantaire wants to laugh, because he feels the same, and more, every time he sees Enjolras, or hears his voice, but he revels in it. The pain of it makes him feel alive, and like Icarus, he wants to touch that heavenly body, even if it kills him. It’s that that makes him reach up to help Enjolras off the stage.

And when Enjolras takes his hand it doesn’t hurt, he doesn’t burn up and fall into the crushing depths of the ocean and the last time Enjolras held his hand like this they both died, but he doesn’t feel any of that. He feels like he’s alive, really alive, like the world really can be changed. It’s only for a moment and then Enjolras gets off the stage and drops his hand, but for that moment he felt some of the fire that burns inside Enjolras.

Although perhaps flames are no longer the best way to describe Enjolras. When Grantaire first met him, Enjolras was like fire and he was destructive and angry, but since he’s known him he’s gotten colder and calmer. But no less destructive, and more likely to hurt people; less likely to explode bright and hot but ultimately harmless and directionless, and more like a targeted missile.

He revels in the chaos he causes, and when he speaks and the crowds shout back at him he grins a savage grin and Grantaire can see the blood on his teeth from all the lives he’s lived. And from all the fights to come.

\--------------------

Before he left university, Joly would drag him around to bars and restaurants, introduce him to people and get his mind off everything else. After he dropped out, Grantaire found he had more time on his hands than he knew what to do with, and he started going out on his own just to keep the days interesting. 

It started out pretty average. He would go to cafés and chat with the baristas when they were just standing around looking bored, to pubs and try to flirt with the waitresses, to the park where he would sit with a book and people-watch. He branched out a little, joined a club for boxing and another for fencing, started frequenting a dance studio. And then he started going out at nights, to bars and nightclubs, down alleys and into buildings with gaudy neon signs where they played poker and roulette and always had a back room that he had reason to make use of far less often than he would like. 

He speaks with waiters and people walking their dogs and sparring buddies and public servants and labourers and others far less savoury. He knows the best places to see a fight or see a show, to have a coffee or a glass (or a bottle) of wine, the best place to go to gamble all of your money away, and then where to go for help afterwards. 

He knows everyone and everywhere. He walks home along the Seine every night, and Paris speaks to him, tells him all of her secret passages and places, all the ways that he can get lost in her and feel the thrum of her heartbeat. 

Sometimes Grantaire manages to convince Joly to come along on these excursions with him. Not as often as he would like, because Joly is dedicated to his studies, but Joly took him out when he needed it, and Grantaire wants to repay the favour, wants to introduce Joly to everyone he knows. So Joly comes with him to the cafés, spends entire days at the one table with him and chats with every new barista who brings them their next cup. Joly comes to the pubs and bars and outdrinks everyone there because no one apparently saw fit to inform them that if there’s one thing medical students know how to do, it’s drink. Joly sits with him in the park and laughs along at the people and the dogs. He cheers for him at boxing and fencing, dances with him at nightclubs, and on one particularly memorable evening stitches up a gang member’s knife wound at a small back-alley poker game.

Grantaire doesn’t mind going out alone, he has plenty of friends anywhere he chooses to go, and if he doesn’t know anyone he tells stories until he does, but he prefers going with Joly. Which is why he can’t be completely thrilled when Joly mentions he has a boyfriend. Joly has so little spare time as it is, and he worries that dates are going to take a huge chunk out of it. Not that he would begrudge Joly for it at all, but he doesn’t want to lose his best friend.

When he finally gets a chance to meet Bossuet, Grantaire soon realises he didn’t need to worry. Bossuet fits in easily with their outings, smiles at everyone they introduce him to and has no problems being dragged anywhere they want to go. He’s frequently unemployed, so Grantaire finds that he actually spends more time with him than Joly, because he too needs something to fill his days with. Bossuet listens patiently to every one of his stories and complaints, laughs at the right moments and looks like he wants to hug him for the rest. Bossuet looks after them when they go to bars, but when he doesn’t have to he can drink with the best, and sometimes the three of them just sit around in Grantaire’s crappy apartment and drink wine straight out of the same bottle and watch movies and talk about the future.

It’s nice, Grantaire thinks. It’s right. If Enjolras can have Combeferre _and_ Courfeyrac and they can all find time for each other, then he and Joly and Bossuet can do the same. Three is a great number.

When Joly and Bossuet tell him about Musichetta, Grantaire panics, because he’s not one of their three anymore. Now it can be Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta, a nice little self-contained group. They don’t need him anymore.

Grantaire knows everyone and everywhere, makes it his mission to. It’s because he’s sure that his friends are going to leave him.

\--------------------

“I don’t want you to commit yourself to something you might not completely understand. You want to do this even thought I’m asexual, right?”. Enjolras looks an endearing mix of nervous and determined and he’s completely adorable. Grantaire just wants to hug him, to press himself so close and never let him go so that Enjolras will know how much he wants to just be near him, to cuddle up and tell him again and again that he his happy with whatever Enjolras will give him. But Enjolras doesn’t really talk about his personal life or his sexuality unless it’s immediately important to what is happening, and if he’s brining it up now, he must really need to know.

So he think about the question before he answers. “Honestly? To begin with I thought it was kind of weird.” He says, and he can’t look at Enjolras right now so he stares hard at his own knees instead and can’t hear anything over the pounding in his ears. “I mean, we’re always told that sex is the ultimate expression of love or at least a natural part of what makes us human and that’s a hard mindset to break. But I went home and I read about it and I guess, well...no one could see you with your friends and think that you’re incapable of love, platonic or otherwise. No one could hear you talk about people and not know that you care deeply. So yeah, I understand what I’m getting into and I still want to.”

Grantaire looks up at that to see Enjolras looking softly at him and he smiles tentatively back. “I’m proud of you, you know.” Enjolras says, and Grantaire blushes. He doesn’t tell him that he stayed up for hours researching asexuality, that he contacted people online to ask their stories. 

But he has one more question to ask. “Why did you think it might be a problem?” 

And Enjolras blushes, actually blushes, and Grantaire’s never seen him blush in all the time(s) they’ve known each other. He’s seen him flushed and red with anger, but this colour is lighter, sweeter, and he wants to rub his hands all over it. “Well, you’re always talking about the people you’ve slept with and I just thought–”

Enjolras is cut off by Grantaire’s laughter. He laughs, and his stomach hurts and there are tears in his eyes and not all of them are from mirth. But Enjolras just looks confused, and maybe a little worried, and so Grantaire explains. “Yeah, that was a slight exaggeration. I mean, you do realise what I look like, right?” And Enjolras just looks even more confused, frowns and squints a little, and Grantaire comes to a startling realisation. “You genuinely don’t know what people look like, do you?”

“No. I told you that. Why would I lie?”

“I don’t know” Grantaire says, and he’s feeling strangely panicky, but he can’t figure out why. “I just thought you were one of those people who pretends like they’re above all that ‘looks’ stuff to seem like a better and more evolved person somehow. I don’t know, everyone has to have flaws.”

Enjolras doesn’t look confused anymore. Enjolras looks kind of pissed, jaw tensed and and chin tilted up slightly and Grantaire realises too late that that was a stupid thing to say but he’s a having a little bit of trouble thinking straight. “Oh please” Enjolras bites out, and Grantaire flinches a little. “That time I gave an anti-police corruption flyer to those off-duty cops who had arrested me the day before didn’t tip you off?”

“I thought you were just being facetious” Grantaire says. “It seemed like something you would do.”

“I don’t actually want to spend the night in a holding cell, Grantaire. The beds are uncomfortable, and I can’t keep spending all my money on bail.”

“What?” Grantaire snaps back, and he’s getting angry now, too. Enjolras pushes at him and he pushes back because it makes him feel alive. “I thought you and Bahorel were having a competition to see who could stay in all the police stations in Paris.”

“Why are you trying to start a fight with me?” Enjolras almost shouts, and then abruptly deflates. Grantaire has never seen Enjolras back down from a fight before, and he’s so stunned that all of the hot air leaves him in an instant and they’re just left staring at each other like they had been before the conversation got away from them. “Why does it even matter what you look like? I’m sure you look fine.”

Grantaire laughs again, but it’s less bitter this time. “Let’s just say that people aren’t exactly lining up to have sex with me, alright. I mean, the people who actually know me, sure, we like to have fun. The people I box with or dance with, I hook up with them sometimes. But people in the street, or at a bar? I can try and catch their eye all night and most of the time they won’t even look in my direction”. The quiet falls again. Enjolras’ fridge hums and the person in the next apartment over is watching television with the volume high enough to travel faintly through the wall. Enjolras doesn’t say anything to break the mood but he does lean in slightly and Grantaire shifts to brush their shoulders together, picks at the sleeves of the hoodie Enjolras leant him earlier where they hang over his hands, and comes to another realisation. “Hang on. How do you know I’m me, then?”

Enjolras laughs then, and his laugh is brighter than Grantaire’s. “I’m not stupid, you know. You sound like you. No one antagonises me like you, either.” He reaches out and takes Grantaire’s hand loosely, turns it over in his own a couple of times. “There are a lot of ways to tell people apart. Their shape or the way that they smell or sound. Sometimes by things like hair or eyes if I know them well and something is particularly striking.”

“Courfeyrac.” Grantaire says immediately, because if he’s mentioning striking eyes, Enjolras can only be talking about Courfeyrac. Frankly, if there wasn’t Enjolras, Courfeyrac would be exactly his type, and his eyes are a big part of that; the kind of grey that reflect everything that he sees.

Enjolras smiles. “Courfeyrac.” he acknowledges. “And Feuilly. That kind of green is rare. But you all have something striking about you.”

Grantaire thinks on that a little, tries to decide what Enjolras would have settled on for all their friends. Combeferre is obviously the fact that he and Enjolras grew up together. Jehan is probably his clothing choices and Romantic air, Joly his cane, Cosette her tumbling hair and the weapon-like heels she wears fearlessly. And then he gets to himself, and he feels his heart stop for a moment, because if it’s not his face Enjolras recognises, there’s only one other notable thing about him. “God.” he says, and he chokes on it, tries to pull his hand away from Enjolras’. “I must just look like any other drunk to you.”

Enjolras doesn’t let go of his hand, but he doesn’t answer immediately either and Grantaire wants to run, but Enjolras is keeping him on the couch. “I’m glad you were honest with me before, and I’m not going to lie to you now.” Enjolras says eventually, and his voice is soft in a way that Enjolras never is; he’s fire and ice and destruction and Grantaire doesn’t understand what’s happening now, doesn’t understand how they got to this point. “Sometimes, when you’re really drunk, I don’t recognise you right away,” he continues. “But that’s just because I don’t associate you with alcohol. Grantaire, you’re kind and funny and you frustrate me sometimes with your nonsense, but you drove me to Joly when I was hurt and to school when I needed it, and you come to every protest that I’m involved in. We _died_ together. Grantaire, you’re more to me than just your drinking. You’re more to all of us. Your friends love you.”

Grantaire kind of doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s crying, a little, and squeezing Enjolras’ fingers to the point where they must hurt, but Enjolras doesn’t complain. He can’t just say thank you, thank you isn’t enough. Enjolras can’t know what he’s done for him, can’t know how much Grantaire is afraid that all he is is his issues, and sure, one person telling him he’s worth something isn’t enough to stop him wondering if his life is pointless, but it’s not just one person. It’s Joly and Bossuet and his therapist and all his friends, in their own ways, and maybe, just maybe, Grantaire is starting to believe them. Thank you will never be enough, but he has to say something, because Enjolras looks worried about Grantaire’s tears.

“I don’t care that you’re not interested in sex. God, I’m happy enough just to be your friend. Enjolras, I wanted you, I loved you, when I didn’t even think you liked me. What’s sex next to knowing that you do?”

\--------------------

Enjolras never told him where he, Combeferre and Courfeyrac disappeared to with Gavroche the night they cancelled an official Amis meeting for the first time. But it changed something in him. Grantaire doesn’t notice straight away, but to be frank he was so deliriously happy that Enjolras remembered everything that the world could have ended and he likely wouldn’t have noticed. 

But the awareness comes to him over time. It’s little things. Enjolras has always been certain in his beliefs, has always known exactly what he wants to do and how he wants to achieve it, but at the same time he was always willing to change it all if someone else offered a better way. He’s still just as open to other ideas and interpretations, of course, but now the promise of violence doesn’t sway him. When Joly points out that people might get hurt, he only sighs and says that while violence is regrettable, it may also prove necessary. And many of those gathered in the Corinth nod along with him. 

And it’s other little things. Like the way that, more often than not, when Grantaire takes Enjolras’ hand there is rough, scraped skin over his knuckles, and sometimes his own fingerprints come away smeared with blood. Like the way that Enjolras sleeps only in his underwear and when he takes his shirt off Grantaire can see all the bruises and scares on his body and there are always new ones. Like the way that when he crawls into bed after him Grantaire likes it run his hands up and down Enjolras’ side just to prove that he’s there, and sometimes he can feel his ribs sticking out because he’s been too busy to eat enough over the last couple of days. 

Like the way that sometimes, when he kisses Enjolras, Grantaire tastes blood. And he doesn’t know when it’s from, if it’s real or if it’s imaginary. If he’s just remembering the past or if history is repeating itself.

And Grantaire has seen what happens if he everything goes as it has before. He’s seen them die over and over again. And he won’t let it happen again. 

He may not be able to bring himself to care for the cause, not in the way that Enjolras wants him to, but he can care about Enjolras. He can bandage up his knuckles and keep an eye on him at rallies and make sure he get enough to eat. He can make sure Enjolras has a reason not to martyr himself for another cause, make sure he actually lives to see the change he fights for. He finally has this; the warmth and the comfort and the kisses. He’s not letting it go. Not when he can fight for it. Enjolras may be about the bigger picture, but Grantaire has always cared the most about those closest to him. 

He can care about his friends. He can tell them stories to lighten their mood and catch them up in debate so they don’t have time to go out and do anything stupid. He can keep them drinking and talking and out of harm’s way. He can do his part to keep them present and grounded. To keep them all alive.

Because if all of their lives have taught him anything, it’s that they were all meant to live.

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote this first because I don’t know how long it’s going to take me to be free of MCU hell once I fall back in there, and I wanted this to actually get written. I have the a very basic idea for a wedding fic, like, a couple of sentences, but I don’t know when that will be written. Probably not for a long time. Thanks again!


End file.
